Africa's not for Sissies

Chapter 22: Jolling

I spent a lot of time jolling (what Afrikaans call "partying") in Cape Town and saw entirely too much of the cozy little poolside bar at the hostel. Most nights started there with a happy-hour beer around 7pm. With the low-value of the South African rand, the beers didn't hurt my wallet much, although I'm not sure about my liver. One night a Scottish girl bought a round of drinks for her friends, and upon receiving her change asked the bartender, "How much for the whole pub?"

One Friday night, I went to a downtown pub, Mama Africa's, with Reilly and Fergus, the two Irish backpackers I'd picked up at the airport, and Annie and Emma – they had since forgiven me for getting them lost on Table Mountain. We watched a quintet of local African drummers jam on rough-hewn wooden xylophones and primitive African drums. The only musical accompaniments to the drums were the vocal chords of the musicians – not singing, more like humming and chanting. It was captivating. The music pulsed and throbbed at a frenzied beat and the energy in the place was palpable. You didn't just listen to this music. You felt it.

Soon the musicians were all shirtless with sweat glistening from their lean bodies. They pounded their instruments, faster and faster and faster. The audience writhed and bounced and stamped their feet like they were dancing for rain, faster and faster and faster. One-by-one the musicians pulled audience members onto a pub stool that had been set-up as an impromptu stage and the unlucky victim would soon find himself shirtless and writhing to the cheers of an encouraging audience.

I tried to make myself small, but I was soon pulled towards the chair by an attractive girl, while the crowd cheered me on. My inhibitions washed away by the lager, I allowed her to pull me onto the chair and relieve me of my shirt. I even wiggled around a little on the stool in a pathetic attempt at dancing.

Once my turn in the spotlight was over, I pulled my shirt back on and noticed everyone smiling at me. A warm glow swept over me and I beamed a smile back at everyone. So this is what it felt like to be popular.

POP

It was a noise like a small explosion. I tensed and looked around the room, but everyone was staring at me. I looked down to see an exploded pint glass. I puzzled over how someone had managed to drop their glass right at my feet, when I noticed my right hand. My fingers were curled as if holding a glass, but they were not.

I looked around and gave an apologetic shrug. Annie and Emma rolled their eyes at me, the attractive girl who had pulled me onto the stool gave me a sad look, and pretty much everyone else simply turned their backs on me. My popularity was over. I was back to being me – the awkward kid that nobody wanted to be seen with.

Reilly nudged me in the arm. I looked over and he demonstrated the correct way to hold a pint glass, with the pinky finger hooked under the bottom of the glass. It was a lesson I never forgot.

I bent down and began picking up the larger pieces of glass. I promptly pricked my finger, which began to bleed.

"Leave it," Reilly said, and smiled at me in a way that suggested he understood my embarrassment. "Let me get yah another. I'm almost finished mine anyway. My round."

I followed him to the bar. Fergus joined us and three of us made conversation and I soon forgot all about the incident.

As the night wore on, a man with a thick Afrikaans accent started up a conversation with me. When my beer was empty, he offered to buy me another.

"OK," I said, "I'll get the next one."

After he walked away, Annie came over and winked at me. "He's kinda cute, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess." It struck me as an odd remark, and I didn't know what else to say.

Annie's face lit up. "I didn't know you liked boys!"